


as my kiss goes down you like some sweet alcohol

by thecarlysutra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 10:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17423774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: SUMMARY:Dean gets a little help on a hunt, and then a little help somewhere else. Set during the early seasons.AUTHOR'S NOTES:The fact that this fic even exists is entirely due to @thoughtslikeaminefield. Title from Dua Lipa's "Hotter than Hell".





	as my kiss goes down you like some sweet alcohol

  
Sam and Dean rolled into town to news that the Athame of Kitka had been stolen from the museum, which sucked out loud because they had been planning on stealing it. 

“How are we gonna kill this damn rusalka without the friggin’ rusalka killing stick?” Dean growled. 

“For the third time, an athame is a knife,” Sam said. “And I don't know. We could try fire, maybe. If we burn it to ash, maybe it can't reconstitute.”

“I'm not a fan of _maybe_ ,” Dean groused, but drove them to the hardware store for kerosene, anyway. 

***

When night fell, they were out at the docks with homemade flamethrowers. All the victims had been found in the water, and the lore said the rusalka liked to drag them in and drown them before snacking. Throats and waterlogged lungs and nothing else. Why didn't any of these damn monsters have a balanced diet? Yuck. 

They hadn't seen the thing yet, and accounts varied. Sam wanted more information before going after it, but it could take another victim tonight, so they just had to hope for the best. 

The best. Like that ever happened. 

Clouds moved over the moon, taking most of the light. Dean squinted at his watch. One am, and they'd seen nothing suspicious; they'd hardly seen anything, period. This place was dead. Maybe Sam was right, and they should be researching instead of hunting. The thought hadn't left his head when he saw a small figure, a silhouette from this distance in this low light, walking across the pier. Dean tucked himself into the shadows. Watched. Waited. The figure knelt at the edge of the pier, bowed its head. It stayed like that for a long moment, then stood and walked quickly to the nearest building--the one where Dean was staked out. Shit. He was about to lose his cover, so he could either run or go on the offensive, and running was never his first choice. As the figure neared the building, Dean reached out of the shadows. One hand over their mouth, pulling them against him, the other on the trigger of the gun pressed into their ribs. 

The thing in his arms was warm and breathing. It wasn't struggling. A drop of something warm and wet rolled onto the hand covering its mouth: a tear. Shit. Dean took his hand off the thing’s mouth and put his gun away. He stepped back and the thing stepped back, and now, face to face, he could see it was a girl. Small, of indeterminate mixed race, mid-twenties, maybe, wearing red lipstick and a leather jacket. Her black hair was cut in a choppy bob, and her eyes were dark and sharp. She didn't look afraid, but she wiped a tear away; she had been crying. 

“Anyone ever tell you you're as subtle as an espresso enema?” she asked. She had a low voice with a decidedly musical quality; Dean felt it like fingernails running lightly over his skin, like warm breath on the back of his neck. 

“Huh?” he said. 

“You and your friend,” she said, “tall guy. Can you handle yourselves?” 

“Don't worry about us; can you?”

“Yes. Get ready; it's coming.”

“What?” Dean said. “How do you know?” 

“I know because I called it.”

“How did you do that?” 

“Tears,” she said. “Tears in the water. It's like a shark with blood; one drop, and it's ready to feed. You ready to go?”

Dean held up the flamethrower. “Sure am.”

She frowned. “I don't think fire will help you; it's a water monster. It's wet. Find something long and sharp. Stretch, too, if he's similarly armed.”

She started back towards the water. Dean followed her. 

“I don't mean to get territorial or anything, but we were here first. We don't need you. Go home.”

Sam stepped out of the shadows. “Dean, what's going on?” 

“He's whining that I crashed your party,” the girl said. “Not that there would be a party without me…” 

“Hey, listen, lady--” 

“Shut up,” Sam and the girl said at once. 

Dean shut up, and then he heard it: something moving in the water. He readied the flamethrower. The girl produced a long, white blade from the sheath at her hip; Sam goggled. 

“Hey!” he said in a stage whisper, “that's the Athame of Kitka!”

“I know!” the girl whispered back.

Dean felt like marching over and taking it from her, but at that moment, the dock rocked as something underneath slammed against it. Once, twice. The three of them bunched close together in the center of the dock, as far from the sides as they could get. 

“We do _not_ want to be in the water with this thing,” the girl whispered. 

They strained their ears, listening for the monster beneath them. Nothing. 

“Maybe it left,” Sam said, but he was still keeping his voice low. 

Dean took a step toward the water, looked down. The tiny part of the moon not covered by clouds reflected off the surface of the black water, but he couldn't see further than that. 

And then he heard something tear through the water _fast_ , and the girl cried out as the dock was hit so hard splinters of wood shot up all around them, the planks exploding with the impact, and all three of them fell through the resulting hole, fell into the water. 

Dean sank. The water was cold, and black all around him. He felt something move by him, and hoped it was Sam. He squinted, bubbles escaping his lips, but he couldn't see the rusalka or anything else. His lungs burned; he hadn't had the chance to take a breath before falling into the lake. He needed to get out of here. Dean swam, kicking hard and pulling the water down with his arms, pushing his body upwards, toward the surface. He felt something slither down his spine and hoped it was a snake, but then he felt bony fingers claw his arms, and he twisted in their grasp and saw it: the rusalka. They took the form of beautiful women, and she was beautiful. She had skin pale as the moon, clear green eyes, and twisting tendrils of red hair. She pressed her lips to his, her touch soft, and Dean heard a woman's voice in his head: _I heard you call for me. I came._

_As far as monsters go, this isn't so bad,_ Dean thought, but the thought had no sooner left his head than the rusalka's hands were around his throat, her nails cutting into his neck. She was strong, and he pushed against her, struggled to swim to the surface, but he was getting lightheaded… 

Suddenly, something bright as lightning cut through the dark water. It slashed across the rusalka's back, and it _screamed_ , its mouth opening to show pointed teeth and the most horrible, shrillest sound coming out. But it was enough to make the monster let go of Dean, and he swam up until something pulled him out of the water. 

He was on the shore, soaking wet and bleeding from the neck, with Sam standing over him. 

“Jesus, Dean, are you okay?” 

Dean sucked in some greedy breaths, and felt the damage to his neck with his fingers. It wasn't bad. He let Sam help him to his feet. 

“I thought you saved me, man,” he said. “What was that?” 

“I'm guessing the rusalka?” 

Dean shook his head. “No, I saw something--something blinding white. It hurt the rusalka.”

“Oh. That would be the Athame of Kitka.”

Dean remembered the girl. “Where is she?” 

Sam nodded to the lake. “Still in there.”

Dean was about to dive back in when the girl, knife in hand, broke the surface of the water. She coughed and swam until the water was low enough that she could walk, and by that time Sam was there helping her to shore. 

“Did you kill it?” Sam asked. 

The girl coughed again. This time some water came out. She put the Athame of Kitka back in her sheath. She took off her leather jacket, shook the water out of it, twisted her hair in her fist, squeezing out more water. 

“Yup,” she said. “Are you guys hungry? I'm starving.”

***

They changed first, agreeing to meet at a chain sports bar downtown, the only place open this late likely to serve food. The Winchesters arrived first, and took a booth by the bar. 

“Why are we doing this?” Dean asked. “Job's done.”

“She saved your life,” Sam said. “I think buying her a beer is the least we can do. ”

Dean shrugged, mulishly. 

The door to the bar opened, and the girl came in wearing jeans, a black lace racerback tank that offered peeks of her red bra, and a fresh coat of lipstick. She slid into the booth next to Sam. 

“Uh, hi. I'm Sam; this is my brother, Dean.”

“Calla,” she said.” Nice to meet you in a non- _being dragged to our watery graves_ context.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “thanks for that. I mean--” 

“We were doing fine on our own,” Dean said.

“What my brother _means to say_ ,” Sam said loudly, “is thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The waitress came over, stopping any more protests Dean was planning. Dean and Calla ordered beers and burgers; Sam ordered a beer and some fries, the healthiest thing on the menu.

“How’d you know that thing about the tears?” Dean asked as soon as the waitress was out of earshot.

Calla shrugged. “Research.”

“The Net?” Sam asked.

“No, actual books. My guardian’s got the best occult library this side of the Mississippi.”

“Bobby Singer has the best occult library in the country,” Dean said.

Calla brightened. “You know Bobby? And sure, but he’s on the other side of the river.” 

The food arrived. Sam poked at his french fries while Dean and Calla made similar orgasmic faces over their burgers.

“So how long have you been doing this?” Dean asked.

Calla shrugged. “I don’t know. Always. I grew up with it.”

“Us too,” Sam said. “Our dad was a hunter.”

“Sorry about the ‘was,’” Calla said. “But I guess being a hunter doesn’t make for great family reunions.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” Sam said. He looked at Dean. “Stop pouting.” 

“I’m not pouting,” Dean said. “I’m just having an intimate moment with this burger, here.” 

“He’s mad about the athame,” Sam said. “And--”

“And shut it,” Dean said.

Calla ran her forefinger around the edge of her glass. “That’s okay. I get it. We’re used to doing the saving, and it’s hard to be on the other side of it. Anyway, this line of work teaches you not to expect a warm welcome everywhere you go.”

Dean frowned. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Thanks for making sure that thing didn’t eat my lungs.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for the beer.”

“Who said we’re paying for your beer?”

“We are,” Sam said. “We definitely are.”

***

It was late when they left the bar. A thought struck Dean as they walked to the parking lot.

“Where is it?” he asked. “The athame.”

“In my hotel room,” Calla said. “Why? Would you like to see it?”

As it turned out, they were staying in the same hotel. Dean left Sam in their room and followed Calla up the stairs to hers.

“I can’t believe you beat us to this frickin’ knife,” Dean said.

“Luck,” she said. “Walk it off.”

The athame was wrapped in a towel and hidded inside the top drawer of the nightstand, by the Bible. Calla unwrapped it and handed it to Dean. He examined the blade, which was long, silver, and carved with runes. He tried moving it through the air to see if he could make it glow, but it just looked like a dagger, not like the bolt of lightning he’d seen under the water.

“I think it only gets bright in the water,” she said, following his train of thought.

He shrugged. “Pretty neat toy.”

He handed it back to her, and she wrapped it back up and put it back in the nightstand.

“Is that the only reason you wanted to come up here?” she asked.

He grinned. “Well, I know two things are great after a hunt. Eating, and f--”

She kissed him, her fingers threading roughly through his hair. He put his hands on her body, small shoulders, soft breasts. She clawed his jacket off, and pulled her shirt off over her head. Kicked off her boots, moved them onto the bed, pulling him down on top of her. He balanced his weight on one arm and used the other to open her jeans. She was rough, insistent, her teeth on his neck, his collarbone, her hands quick and competent. Dean pushed past the soft, silky fabric of her panties and rubbed his fingers over her sex. She took in a short breath and pushed against the pressure, rutting up on his fingers. They paused for a moment, eye to eye, wary but engaged, like jungle cats passing each other in the night. Then it was over, and they were kissing again, touching each other and losing clothing. Calla pushed Dean to his back, came up over him, slipping him inside her. She rode him sitting up, her hands on his shoulders, her eyes on his. It was good, quick and dirty but as satisfying as that first breath out of the water, and afterwards they lay together, letting their pulses beat back down, feeling the welts from fingernails on their chests and arms. Before Dean left, he put his number in her phone, and he walked down the stairs to his room feeling a little glad that they'd gotten to town too late to steal that stupid knife.  



End file.
